Monday, November 20, 2017

Earlier this week, I finished reading John McPhee's Draft No. 4. That collection of essays has left me with a lifetime of writing-craft matters to ponder. I'm picking one from page 82 for this slice:

No one will ever write in just the way that you do, or in just the way that anyone else does. Because of this fact, there is no real competition between writers. What appears to be competition is actually nothing more than jealousy and gossip. Writing is a matter strictly of developing oneself. You compete only with yourself. You develop yourself by writing.

Daunting and empowering words, though maybe that's just because I'm two-thirds of the way through my truncated whack at National Novel Writing Month. I also find myself reflecting on my role as a responder to student writing due to how McPhee continues the preceding passage. He advises, "An editor's goal is to help writers make the most of the patterns that are unique about them." So I wonder: Am I helping young writers make the most of their distinctness? How might I do better?

The connection I mentioned happened earlier tonight when I finally caught up with a movie from two years ago, Creed. A scene sticking with me is this one:

"Develop yourself" resonates as a powerful mantra, arguably one on which workshop and studio classrooms -- or training gyms -- are built. Yet, notice how Rocky (the teacher) sets up Donnie (the student) to do his work before announcing, "I'm going to leave you two alone for a while."

That's a sweet science to which many educators aspire, and not alone. While we may compete against ourselves, we can collaborate with anyone.

Tuesday, November 7, 2017

I didn't have anything to read, a source of notable chagrin while riding the bus home from school on a snow-gray afternoon. I poked at my phone and saw a branch library had copies of two appealing books on the shelf. One was Celine by Peter Heller, which I'd climbed half way into via audio book on an October road trip. Subsequent car time had proven harder to gather, and this wasn't a story I wanted to leave hanging. The other book was John McPhee's latest, Draft No. 4.

So, rather than walking home from the terminal, I called a commuting audible and hopped aboard a crossing bus route that would take 10 minutes to transport me to the library. I was treated on the way to an animated conversation between two passengers about the merits of author David Baldacci. A different group of bus readers meanwhile debated the merits of e-books versus print ones. I had stumbled into my tribe, apparently, and they happened to be on the 5:07 headed north.

My library visit was a clinical strike: in and out with two books in hand and back on the same bus, which had looped around for a return journey south. I couldn't help noticing the two riders now on board, looking down with Mona-Lisa smiles, lost in reading.